


Bedside Chats

by dareyoutoread



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Gen, I mean that last tag was just cuz I have a real pun problem and I couldn't resist, Peril in peril, if you watched the movie you can probably handle this, ot3 if you squint maybe lol, reasonably fluffy for a fic where someone gets shot, there's some blood if that bothers you but it's hardly gory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:13:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21738901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dareyoutoread/pseuds/dareyoutoread
Summary: The one where Illya gets shot, Napoleon is snarky, and Gaby’s just trying to hold this team of idiots together.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin & Napoleon Solo & Gaby Teller
Comments: 2
Kudos: 66





	Bedside Chats

**Author's Note:**

> I have so many fics to finish, I really shouldn't be writing for a new fandom, but this has been sitting around on my hard drive for a while and hey, why not? lol.

The evening proceeds as planned, right up until the sniper. 

Illya and Napoleon are making their escape, Gaby covering from the shadows, and it’s all gone quite smoothly until it doesn’t.

There’s a _pop_ ; the Russian staggers, and a second later, Illya goes down hard. Napoleon throws an arm under his shoulder and fires two neat shots at the sniper’s position before sparing a glance across the plaza at her. 

The desperation is hidden, but it’s there. For a moment, she feels vaguely ill. 

A distraction she can not afford. Right. Work to be done. She lays down the cover fire the boys need, and Napoleon wastes no more time, fleeing the plaza with his half-unconscious partner leaning heavily on his shoulder.

She takes her exit moments later, disappearing into an alley, up a stairway, down again, and to a waiting motorbike. 

It’s an hour before she can safely meet the boys back at their hotel, and by the time she arrives, her hands are doing their best imitation of Illya’s nervous tic. 

“How is he?” she asks on her first long stride through the door. Two more bring her to the entrance to the bedroom, and Napoleon stops her at the door - doesn’t touch her; simply stands in her way. A moment later, she realizes why - his hands are covered in blood.

“You’ll want to wait a moment. It’s fairly - ”

She pushes past him. 

“...gruesome.” 

Her first absurd thought is that Illya would be terribly upset to realize that he’s ruining so much lovely Egyptian cotton. The white sheets have turned a startling red underneath him, and the half-wound bandage at his ribs is faring no better.

Napoleon reads her reaction to the sloppy bandaging job in her soft huff and the slope of her shoulders. “It took me forty-five minutes to get the damned bullet out,” he says by way of excuse. “I’d only just finished a moment before you got here.” 

“Let me.” It was intended to be a question, but Napoleon hands over the roll of bandages without argument. He sits, leaning back into the chair behind her and stretching out his legs. There’s a soft grunt as his back cracks on the stretch. 

“Be my guest. After that, I need a shower and a drink. Maybe several.”

“Drinks, or showers?” She’s just adding words to fill the space, to keep him talking and not thinking as she carefully slips a hand under Illya’s battered torso and starts to wind the bandage. Napoleon talks when he’s nervous. He talks all the time, of course, but when he’s nervous there’s a forced edge to his voice. It’s there now.

“Both,” he says immediately, punctuating it with a sigh. The chair creaks as he stands up. Any moment now, he’ll start pacing. This conversation is a little game they’re playing - something to pass the time - but she knows he’s as likely to leave for a shower and a drink right now as she is to stand on the tabletop and dance naked. 

She’s on her third pass around Illya’s ribs, laying neat rows of bandages onto already tacky blood.

“Not too tight,” mutters Napoleon, pretending to look at something else when she glances over at him. 

“I have it,” she says, and she’s as gentle with her voice as she is with her hands, trying to keep both boys together. 

It’s quiet for too long, and when she looks up from her half-finished work, Napoleon is standing with his hands braced against the dresser, head down, his disheveled hair reflected in the mirror.

“I should have seen him.” 

“Don’t.” This time, she’s less gentle. “This is a dangerous line of work we’re in. Accidents happen.” More words. She means them, truly, but she can’t shake the impression that to Napoleon they feel rehearsed. 

Napoleon’s shoulders tense, as if he’s going to argue. Finally, he sighs. “Damned idiot’s going to have another scar.” His lip twists, but it isn’t true amusement. “Pretty soon we’ll have to stop hiring him out as a swimsuit model when we’re short on cash.” 

“Yes. We’ll have to hire _you_ out instead.” She’s moved on to a second layer of bandages now, relieved to see that relatively little blood has seeped through the first layer. 

Napoleon laughs - a little raw, but genuine - and turns from the dresser, running a hand through his hair. The blood has dried on his palms now, but it speaks to his emotional state that he’s letting those hands anywhere near his hair. “Can’t.” He clears his throat, so naturally she only just realizes he’s covering for a voice crack. “It would completely blow my ironclad cover. Not to mention, we’d be beating the ladies off with sticks.” 

“Would we, now? Because _I_ was under the impression that half the women of Europe had seen your naked chest already. You’re old news, Solo.” She _tsks_ lightly under her breath, the corner of her mouth quirking in a smile as Napoleon blusters, the most _real_ expression she’s seen from him since Ilya slumped against him in the courtyard.

“I’ll have you know that my chest is well worth a repeat viewing. Furthermore, the ladies of Europe - ”

“Should flee from your hideous American sense of fashion,” mumbles a thick, Russian-accented voice.

Napoleon finds his feet with the speed and grace of the best con men, but not before Gaby witnesses palpable relief flash across his face. “At least I’m not the one bleeding all over my very expensive jacket.”

Illya looks in horror at his bandaged chest before his eyebrows knit together in confusion. “Where is my - ”

“Relax, Peril. I put it on the chair.” He jerks his head at the armchair he just vacated, and Illya relaxes fractionally.

“That is not nice joke,” he mutters, eyes dropping to half-lidded as he leans into the pillow. 

“ _I_ thought it was funny,” Napoleon returns in his usual flippant tone. He’s smiling now, but there’s a burning intensity in his gaze and his eyes have yet to leave Illya’s. 

“You think this show with talking horse is funny. You are not good judge.” To his credit, Illya makes it almost all the way through the second sentence before his eyes unfocus and his head lolls back against the pillow. 

“Enough sparring, you two.” Gaby speaks as if to both, but she’s looking straight at Napoleon and raising one of her eyebrows to make her point. “You can have your little tete-a-tete when you’re both sporting the same number of holes.”

“So I have to get shot, too?” Napoleon turns from the drink cart where he’s finally poured himself a scotch and raises a second glass to offer to her. She waves it off. She’ll need to stay up with Ilya tonight, at least for a few more hours, and a drink - or the several she knows she will have if she starts - will only make her sleepy.

There’s something in Napoleon’s question - a serious undercurrent, a touch of guilt - as if he’d go out looking to get shot just to even the odds. It bothers her, but it’s also so subtle - so well hidden under his smile and charm and his offer of a drink - that she can’t think of how to call him on it.

Illya, however, can.

“No,” grunts the Russian, with his eyes still closed. “You are not allowed to get shot. Then we would all have to listen to your whining for several days, and then one of us would kill you. End of mission. End of U.N.C.L.E.” He pauses for breath and then smiles, cracking just one eye open to gauge Solo’s reaction. “Best you leave the getting shot to me.”

Gaby swats the mattress next to him, eliciting a twitch and a subsequent wince. His eyes fly open in anger but he stills when they settle on her face. “How about we _all_ plan that _no one_ gets shot next time? Gentlemen? An agreement _not_ to compete in this _one_ area?”

Illya and Napoleon look reluctantly at one another and then at her.

Finally, Napoleon sighs dramatically. “Fine. Next time we’ll compete to see who can shoot the other bastard first. Agreed?” He raises his glass of scotch in a mock toast. 

“ _Da_ ,” Illya agrees. His eyes have drifted shut again. “If already I have not killed him with bare hands.” 

It’s one of those inconsequential arguments that goes on for quite some time. Gaby doesn’t see the harm in it, as it’s keeping Illya awake and Napoleon amused.

She’s also very happy to remind them of it, three weeks later, when _she_ takes out the next sniper before either of the boys even know that he’s there.


End file.
